


Unconventional

by masquerad



Series: Unconventional!Verse [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drarry, Infidelity, M/M, Mentions of past Ginny/Harry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-01
Updated: 2016-07-01
Packaged: 2018-07-19 10:24:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7357516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/masquerad/pseuds/masquerad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco and Harry haven't seen each other in three years. When Draco receives Apparation coordinates, he has a sneaking suspicion he knows exactly who sent them. After all, who would meet at such an unconventional place as a crumbling house other than somebody as unconventional as Harry Potter?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unconventional

“The scariest thing about distance is that you don't know whether they'll miss you or forget about you.” —Nicholas Sparks

Of all the places in the world, Draco never thought Potter would bring him here.

A dilapidated old Victorian, the remaining shutters drawn closed over the windows, ivy creeping up over the weathered wood exterior like a parasite, dipping into gaping window frames. It might've been painted white at one point, but now it was dirty and chipped to an unappealing shade of grey. The roof sloped unnaturally, like it would collapse at any moment, shingles missing in some places and chimney crumbling.

They've never met out of Potter's flat, never anything more than a brisk fuck before Draco left wordlessly into the night. His kisses always tasted of vodka and orange juice, a strictly Muggle concoction that Draco detested. It left a bitter tang in his mouth, or maybe that was the regret he felt. It clung to him like nettles catching wool socks. He just didn't know what he regretted more; fucking Potter, or leaving. 

But he'd left, with hardly a justifiable reason for it. Staying would have meant waiting around for Harry to figure it out, to see how hard Draco had fallen, and to skip back to Ginny. Harry wasn't Draco's, not truly. Draco knew he was just a toy to be tossed away, something to hold Harry together when he was in a rough spot. Whenever the Weaslette decided she was ready to smooth things over with her fiancé and marry him like society expected, he would be nothing more than a hazy drunken memory in ugly Healer's robes. 

Sometimes, he wondered if Harry had forgotten that they had existed, together, for six months. Six glorious months of Firewhiskey at three a.m. and marathon sex and the scent of Potter's cologne tainting the soft bedsheets. Sometimes, he wondered if Harry missed him. He wasn't sure what was worse. He wasn't sure of a lot of things.

He hadn't seen Potter in two years, anyway. This morning, though, a great horned owl had swooped through his window, grey and brown wings nearly brushing his face as it dropped a letter— and a feather, accidentally —on the table before disappearing as fast as it had arrived. A heavy cream envelope, containing a scrap of cheap lined paper, the kind you'd find in a Muggle print shop. Apparation coordinates, in barely discernible chicken scratch with a nearly dry quill. It had Harry Potter written all over it, despite not actually having a sender's name written at all.

With a cautious hand (you could never be sure what lurked inside an old and neglected building), Draco opened the door. It swung inward with a loud squeak, clinging to its hinges from rust and disuse alone. The foyer was empty, save for a dusty mirror with gilded edges that hung crookedly off the wall, and a sofa with moth-eaten upholstery. Mouse droppings littered the floor. A grand staircase ascended to the second floor, handrail partially eaten by termites, delicately curving like the swish of noblewoman's skirt.

Draco followed them, ignoring the squeak on the third step, skipping the ninth which had a missing plank. The second floor was just as damaged as the first, plaster flaking off the walls and a rotting spot in the middle of the room where the roof leaked. Large windows faced the back lawn, revealing an overgrown flower garden, fenced in by tall hedges that couldn't have been trimmed since before Draco was born. It smelled of mildew and age and old spells, like the entire house was an attic full of heirlooms.

Only one piece of furniture decorated the room; a grand piano, leaning slightly where one leg was beginning to give. Draco traced patterns in the dust on the lid, wrinkling his nose at the grime left on his finger. He pressed a single ivory key, listening to the resounding noise, shattering the stillness.

Something creaked downstairs. He was not alone. A squatter, perhaps? Momentary fear gripped him. What if Harry hadn't been the sender of the coordinates? Draco's hand flew to his wand, cached safely in his trousers. He felt the thrum of magic against his skin, knew he would have the advantage of knowing that someone was here—

A set of cool hands grasped his narrow hips from behind. He whirled around frantically, a flurry of black robes and blonde hair, crashing straight into a muscled chest. Silver eyes flicked up to look at the invasion of his personal space. Black hair, sea glass eyes behind thick glasses, a barely visible dusting of freckles on his nose. Potter, just as he'd suspected.

A breath of relief escaped him, ghosting over Potter's pale face. Harry's mouth slipped into one of his trademarked lazy half smiles, but there was warmth and affection in his eyes. Draco's heart fluttered like the wings of a hummingbird at the sight.

"Malfoy."

And that voice. Alluring without being sensual or loving, dripping with every feeling, and it was absolutely toxic. Because if Draco didn't leave now, he would fall again, fall for the stupid golden boy, and this time he wouldn't get out. A myriad of emotions coursed through him, a plethora of words on the tip of his tongue that would never be said, because Harry kissed him then.

He didn't taste of liquor and the Weaslette's lip balm like he had during their shortlived affair, but of coffee and Sugar Quills and chocolate covered cherries. Draco pushed him up against the nearest wall, oblivious to the groaning of the floorboards as a misplaced footstep knocked the piano to only three legs.

The hands that roamed his body were calloused and familiar, warm and so absolutely _him_ that Draco felt like he would explode from all the emotions caged inside his chest. His jaw was scratchy with the hint of a five o'clock shadow, abrasive and soft all at once. Draco's tongue pried inside his mouth, exploring, memorising every crevice and point, the sharpness of Potter's canines, the arched roof of his mouth.

When Potter pushed Draco away, panting for breath, he nearly fell over. He found himself crushed against a firm chest once more, the thudding of his heartbeat against his ear. Already he was memorising the pattern of Harry's breath, and each inhale and exhale he took was falling in sync. He could remember every reason that he'd fallen for this man, this annoying wreck of a saviour with an unfair degree of innocence in his emerald eyes and a playful smile on his lips.

**Author's Note:**

> Update: After some of my lovely readers requested it, I decided that Unconventional will be getting a sequel! It should be up soon, once it's finished and edited. This fic will be added to the Unconventional!Verse, so keep your eyes out for an update to that series.


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